


Sixfold in Scarlet

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst and Humor, Domestic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, the things that happen when your flatmate is Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:28:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Holmes should have called for Watson, and one time he did. Inspired by the initial conversation between Holmes and Watson in “A Study in Scarlet.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sixfold in Scarlet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vernets](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=vernets).



> Written for vernets as part of the acd_holmesfest gift exchange. 
> 
> All italicized quotes from “A Study in Scarlet” are the work of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, as are the characters. Original images belong to their owners; manipulations of those photographs are my own, done under fair use doctrine; no disrespect intended, and certainly no profit made.

 

 

1\. Domestic Hazards

 

 

_“I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street which would suit us down to the ground.”_

There was that noise again.

Watson stopped on his slow, halting progress down the hallway. He had only lived at Baker Street for a few weeks. There were many new sounds here, creaks of old wood walls, rumbles of passing carts and cabs, gurgles of pipes; all very different than the sounds he’d grown used to in the Army. And he knew he was not at his best, or even remotely to it. He was still an invalid, and worse, prone to strange fancies on the all-too-frequent occasions when pain kept him from sleep until late in the night.

Yet for all that, he couldn’t help the growing certainty that the strange sound was real. More than that: it was one he should investigate. An absurd notion, surely. Yet after all, what else had he to do? At the very least it offered a modicum of exercise and interest, and he was in desperate need of both.

He did his best to remain silent as he walked. His house-slippers both helped and hurt his efforts. Their soft soles were nearly silent on the polished wood floor, but they did not provide much traction for a man with an unsteady gait, and he had to catch his balance several times. Once he forgot himself and reached out with the wrong hand. The resultant jarring to his bad shoulder left him swearing under his breath while pained sweat popped out on his forehead.

He heard it more distinctly, a strange, slithery sort of sound, nothing he could put a name to. And then, as he neared the end of the hall, it happened again, louder this time. It sounded as if… Yes, there was the door to the bathroom, right at the end. And that noise was definitely coming from behind the door. The closed door. As a rule, that door always stood open, except of course when someone was taking a bath. Which would be a perfectly strange thing to do at five o’clock in the afternoon, but it was possible. Or perhaps Mrs. Hudson’s house-maid was running late in her cleaning duties. That would make more sense.

“Hello?” he called out.

Another slithering noise, and then an unmistakable voice. “Watson? Are you alone?”

Watson blinked at the strange question as much as the odd tone. “Of course I am.”

“Then would you please do me the favour of entering the bathroom?”

Watson turned the knob and stepped inside. A single glance told him exactly what was amiss. “Holmes!” He hurried over to the large porcelain tub, where a very wet, entirely unclothed Holmes lay half-sprawled and grimacing in obvious pain. “What happened?”

“I fell while standing to get out of the bath.”

“Well yes, I can see that. And you’ve done yourself a mischief.” He seized the towel lying untouched on the nearby cabinet and bent over to drape it over Holmes before taking his wrist to check his pulse. The chill of his skin was less surprising than the slipperiness of it. “What on earth?”

“I believe the house-maid put out a new soap. It is quite inferior to the old, in that it does not appear to rinse away.”

“That explains why you fell.”

“And why I have not been able to extricate myself from this predicament.” Holmes twisted like an eel, bringing the towel more securely around his middle. “I am not badly hurt, but I have been quite unable to conquer this soap-coated porcelain in my current state. With your assistance, however, I think I can manage.”

“You have a turned ankle, which has already swelled a great deal,” Watson countered matter-of-factly. “And you’ve managed to wrench your shoulder, too, although I don’t think it has been dislocated.” He heaved a rueful sigh. “Well, between us we have three good arms and three good legs. It should suffice.”

Holmes looked alarmed. “My dear fellow, don’t risk yourself - ”

The protest came too late. Watson heaved, Holmes strained, and somehow the two men did not wind up falling over, but instead remained upright. Once out of the tub, Holmes gingerly leaned against one wall while Watson caught his breath and discreetly checked him over. Finding no worse damage than he had already diagnosed, the doctor helped him into the dressing-gown that had been hanging from a hook on the back of the door, and then the two men began a mutual shuffle back to their sitting-room.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand, Holmes,” Watson puffed as they crept along. “Why didn’t you call for help after you fell?”

The pink colour that rose into Holmes’ cheeks might not have been entirely from exertion and pain. “My dear Watson, how could I? At this time of day, the most likely person to have heard my calls was Mrs Hudson, followed by yourself. And I no more wished to offend her than to impose upon you.”

Watson chuckled briefly. “What nonsense, my dear Holmes. I am a doctor, and used to such calls. And as for Mrs Hudson – well, she is a widow, and a woman of sense. Most likely she simply would have summoned the page to assist you. And if not, life as a married woman would have undoubtedly been proof against the momentary surprise of seeing you in such a state.”

After a shocked pause, Holmes’ laugh echoed Watson’s. “ _She_ might have withstood it, perhaps, but I doubt _I_ would have survived the experience!”

 

 

2\. Up In Smoke

 

_“You don’t mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?”_

 

“Good God, Holmes!” Watson exclaimed. The sitting-room was almost impossible to see through the dense haze of tobacco-smoke. That was not entirely unusual, but Holmes’ barking cough certainly was. “Are you ill?”

“Not ill, no,” Holmes rasped. “You might have poisoned me, however. How can you smoke that blend?”

Watson blinked. “That blen – Holmes, do you mean to tell me that you’ve been smoking my Ship’s since I went to bed last evening?”

“Of course not. I’ve been smoking since I started pondering the Parrish problem.” Holmes coughed again. “I told you it was a three-pipe problem. Either I underestimated, or this foul excuse for tobacco failed to help me think.”

“Why didn’t you smoke your own, then?”

“I have none currently, and I could not spare the time to venture out to procure more.”

“And you could not spare the words to ask me?” Watson shook his head and walked over to the coat-rack. He rummaged in his overcoat pocket and withdrew a pouch. “For if you had, I would have told you that I picked up a fresh supply of your usual mix while I was out walking yesterday afternoon.” He placed the bag in Holmes’ hand. “You could have asked me anytime in the three hours between when you started smoking and I retired for the night. Really, Holmes!”

“Ah. That was very thoughtful of you, Watson.” Holmes cleared his throat. “Hum! I am afraid, my dear boy, that I am about to impose on your good nature twice over. For I must go down to the Yard this morning, now that I’ve thought the matter through and reached my conclusions – and you must forego your morning pipe. I’m afraid you’re entirely out of Ship’s.”

Watson shook his head. “I shall make do with cigarettes for the time being. But Holmes, you had better have a pound of Ship’s in hand when you return, or we shall have words!”

“Of course, Watson. I wouldn’t dream otherwise.”

 

 

3\. Grace Notes

 

_“Do you include violin-playing in your categories of rows?”_

 

Holmes threw down his newspaper with as much force as he could, given the state of his hands. The resultant noise wasn’t loud, but it was enough to draw the attention of the man sitting in the nearby armchair.

“Something particularly vexing in the paper?”

“No,” Holmes snarled.

“Ah, worse then: nothing interesting at all.”

“Congratulations, Watson. Your years residing with me have not been entirely in vain. That is a sound deduction. Obvious, but sound.”

“As your hands would be if you called me to assist you in the conclusion of the Hollingsworth matter, as you had promised to do.”

Holmes harrumphed. “You cannot know that for a fact; it is merely speculation. Gregson and I managed well enough.”

Watson’s chin lifted. “I did not say otherwise. You have helped remove a most heinous and ruthless gang from the streets of London. The Yard has all the credit in the papers, but I know they could not have succeeded without you.” His eyes flickered to Holmes’ hands, the one wrist bound tightly, two fingers on the other hand splinted and wrapped with care. “I am, however, disappointed that you broke your word.”

“I did not.” Holmes’ tone matched the stiffness of his splints. “I sent Tom with a note.”

“You told your Irregular it wasn’t urgent! So he sat there in the kitchen, waiting with the scullery-maid for company for _over two hours_ while I played sympathetic listener to the most hypochondriacal but otherwise healthy widow in London. The servants never even mentioned his presence to me! I only found out he was there because he heard my voice on the stair!”

“Watson, I admit I failed to anticipate Tom’s difficulties in reaching you. That is not the same as not keeping my word.”

Watson sighed and visibly deflated. “No, Holmes, it is not. I apologize. I simply dislike seeing you in such straits, particularly when I might have been able to prevent it. I know how this irks you.”

“You might have prevented it. On the other hand, it might have been you on the wrong end of Constable Jenkins’ stolen truncheon.” Holmes’ eyes twinkled. “And then we would have been in dire straits indeed, for I could not tend your injuries as you are tending mine.”

“Perhaps, although I would not put it past you to have picked up the knack of wrapping bandages at some point. And I like to think that I am somewhat less likely to be provoked by the lack of news in the papers.”

It was more than that, as both men knew. With his hands in their current state, Holmes could find no refuge from boredom in pasting into his commonplace-books, or his chemistry experiments, or his violin. And Holmes’ boredom was something they both dreaded.

The bell rang below stairs. Holmes perked up from his sprawl on the sofa. “A visitor,” he remarked. “If I’m fortunate, it will be a nice case. An armchair case,” he amended hastily at Watson’s dark look. “One that will keep my mind occupied while my body heals.”

A knock sounded on the sitting-room door, followed almost immediately by Mrs Hudson entering the room. “Pardon me, Doctor, Mr Holmes. There’s two delivery-boys here with something for the Doctor.”

“Ah, thank you, Mrs Hudson. That was much sooner than I expected. Please have them bring it up.”

“Of course, Doctor.” She vanished, leaving Watson to face the force of Holmes’ curiosity.

“What have you done, Watson?”

Watson rose to his feet and strode to the door. “Called in a favour,” he answered. “Bring it straight in, lads,” he instructed as two sturdy young men appeared, one carrying a moderately-sized rectangular wooden case, the other a sturdy box. “Place the box on the floor and the case on the table in the corner here. That’s fine. Thank you both.” He withdrew a few coins from his waistcoat pocket and tipped each boy individually. They grinned and clattered down the stairs.

Holmes stared at the polished wood case. “Watson, unless my eyes deceive me, that is a phonograph.”

Watson lifted off the top of the case, exposing the trumpet and the playing mechanism. He lifted the trumpet out and screwed it on. “A sound deduction, Holmes.”

“I know you don’t have the funds for such a purchase.”

“And my cheque-book remains locked in your desk drawer, even if I did. No, this is Thurston’s, and no, I don’t know the details of how he managed to acquire it. What’s important is that he has agreed to lend it to me for a week.” Watson carefully opened the box. “Oh, good. These are the recordings. They look to have made the journey all right.” He pulled out a cylinder and fitted it into the machine. “Care to listen to a little music, Holmes?”

Holmes’ eyes gleamed. “I would enjoy nothing more, Watson.”

Watson turned the crank to wind the device, then engaged the mechanism. A soft hiss, and then music poured forth, the sounds of an orchestra strange but clear.

Holmes said absolutely nothing while the cylinder turned. When it finished, he took a visible breath. “The next time we have a well-heeled client with a complex case, Watson, I do believe we shall have to see whether we might earn enough to purchase one of these.”

And peace reigned in Baker Street.

 

4\. Reagent

 

_“I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments.”_

 

Watson sighed and sat up straighter. The wooden chair and tiny writing table in his room was a far less comfortable place to work on his stories than the sitting-room, but his mind had refused to settle to his task earlier in the afternoon. Determined to write nonetheless, he had come upstairs where there were no possible distractions. Now he had a dozen close-written pages to show for it – and an aching shoulder and back. But the story was moving well at last. Perhaps it was time to return to his proper desk and continue his writing there.

Two things greeted him as soon as he stepped outside of his bedroom: an incredibly foul odour and the sound of angry voices in conversation. Alarmed, Watson hurried down the stairs, listening for all he was worth. As he drew closer, the words became clear.

“…I tell you, Mr Holmes, I will not have it!” The voice was Mrs Hudson’s, and Watson could not remember having ever heard her so angry.

“Mrs Hudson, I regret the outcome, but this was most important work! I cannot simply ‘put it aside,’ as you quaintly termed it, although - ”

“And I can’t think that the doctor appreciates this any more than I do! Not to mention what Mrs McAvoy must think. This has always been a respectable residence. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Mrs McAvoy would find fault no matter who lived here. She thrives on the troubles of others. I have probably enlivened her entire week.”

“Not another word, Mr Holmes! I have had just about enough - ”

Watson wasted no time turning the corner. Mrs Hudson and Holmes stood just inside the sitting-room. The deal-topped table that served as Holmes’ chemistry bench was a smouldering, watery mess of flasks, retorts, and bottles. A nearby bucket explained the water; the smoke-stain on the ceiling and lingering stench the fury on Mrs Hudson’s face, and the trace of colour in Holmes’ cheeks.

“Good heavens,” he exclaimed. “Are you both all right?” He did not wait for a reply, but shepherded them towards the sofa, which was not so incidentally the seat in the room farthest from the source of the smell.

“I am fine, Watson,” Holmes said in a clipped tone.

“I’ll examine you anyway in a moment, to make sure of that,” Watson replied, “but in the meantime, open all the windows while I make sure Mrs Hudson has taken no harm.”

Some of the taut lines around Mrs Hudson’s mouth softened. “I am quite well physically, Doctor Watson.”

“It’s best to be sure. This must have been quite a shock for both of you.” Holmes stopped in the middle of opening a window to glance sharply at Watson. The doctor met the detective’s startled look with a steely gaze and a minute shake of the head. Holmes returned to opening windows, while Watson focused all of his attention on ensuring Mrs Hudson was well.

The smell lessened noticeably with each window opened. By the time Holmes had finished opening them all, the atmosphere had cleared in more than just the physical sense. Holmes lost no time in returning to the sofa.

“She will be all right?” The question contained an uncharacteristic note of anxiety.

“Yes, Holmes.” Watson smiled at Mrs Hudson. “Fortunately our landlady is made of stern stuff.”

“Thank goodness,” he sighed. He straightened to stand at his full height. “Mrs Hudson, I owe you the deepest apologies for my words and behaviour just now. I was angry at myself for having possibly endangered the household, and worried that I had somehow caused you harm. In my anxiety, I allowed my temper to get the better of me. It will not happen again, I assure you.”

It was a handsome apology, sincerely delivered, and Mrs Hudson was fully aware of how rare such an event was. Her face softened visibly. “Well, Mr Holmes, fear often makes us hasty. I should have realized that you hadn’t just wandered away from your chemistry table. I accept your apology – but for the future, if you must conduct your researches here, consider keeping a bucket handy.”

“An excellent suggestion, Mrs Hudson. I will do so.”

“Very well.” Mrs Hudson rose to her feet. “Thank you for your attentions, Doctor. I believe I will take your advice and have a quiet half-hour on my own sofa. I’ll send up the maid.”

“No need, Mrs Hudson. I made this mess; I shall attend to setting things right personally. It is only fitting.”

Mrs Hudson smiled at that as she paused in the doorway. “Very well, Mr Holmes.”

Once she had left, Watson turned to Holmes. “That was very nearly a disaster, Holmes. Next time, if something starts to go wrong with one of your experiments, shout for help!”

“I will, my dear fellow – in case of chemical accidents, or contretemps with our dear landlady. You are invaluable in handling both kinds of calamity.”

 

 

5\. Silent in Haste, Repent at Leisure

 

_“I get in the dumps at times, and don’t open my mouth for days on end.”_

 

Of all his faults – those he was willing to admit to – Holmes truly regretted only one: the occasional black fits that would come upon him. He had warned Watson of them, but nothing could truly prepare the other man for their reality.

Over the years, Holmes became marginally less prone to them, and Watson grew increasingly skilled at coping with Holmes’ behaviour when he was in the depths. But there was still plenty of room for misunderstanding, and resentment, and ill-feeling when the mood was upon him.

When Watson lost patience that afternoon, threw down his book, and declared that he was going to go for a walk, Holmes almost called him back. He wanted Watson’s company, for all that he hadn’t actually spoken to the man in three days. He wanted it even more than the violin that had finally driven his friend from the room. Underneath the weight of the unnameable gloom that stopped his tongue and slowed his reactions, he even found the energy to vaguely regret his inaction.

He regretted it far more when a young constable appeared at the door, ushered in by a white-faced Mrs Hudson. The man turned a battered, blood-spattered brown bowler in his hands.

“A gentleman was struck by a cab not half an hour ago, and left insensible,” the constable said slowly. “He’s been taken to hospital. It wasn’t until after he’d been taken away that I thought to collect his hat from the street. And I noticed a bit of writing inside.”

There on the lining, in plainly printed letters, was a name, followed underneath by an address.

 

_Dr. John H. Watson  
221B Baker Street, London_

Holmes remembered idly commenting once that it would be markedly convenient if every hat, glove, and other article of clothing he examined for clues came helpfully labelled with the owner’s name and address.

Apparently Watson had taken his words seriously.

Heart in his throat, Holmes leaped off the sofa, threw off his dressing-gown, and seized his coat. “Which hospital?”

 

 

+1. Time for Honey

 

_“It’s just as well for two fellows to know the worst of each other before they begin to live together.”_

 

“WATSON!”

Holmes’ voice was not quite as smooth a tenor as it had been, but it had lost none of its power. Alarmed, Watson straightened up from the garden chair where he had been enjoying the mellow Sussex summer sunshine. “Holmes?”

“In the honey-house!”

Watson set aside his book, scooped up his cane, and hurried as quickly as he was able to the small outbuilding, careful to avoid the busily-humming hives along the way. The bees were everywhere, taking advantage of the good weather much as he had been himself. Mindful of Holmes’ prior instructions, he slid the door open, entered swiftly, and hastily shut the door firmly behind himself before turning to see what was the matter.

Holmes stood next to the workbench. A collection of filled and empty honey-jars rested alongside a cylindrical, hand-cranked contraption Watson vaguely remembered Holmes ordering over the winter. It was supposed to be for the extraction of said honey. “Much more efficient than simply waiting for the comb to drain,” he’d enthused.

More efficient, perhaps, but apparently not as neat. Even from where he stood, Watson could see that Holmes was spattered head-to-toe with sticky, golden droplets. “Oh my.”

Holmes gave him a rueful smile. “A drawback I had not foreseen,” he admitted. “And I’m afraid that in this state, I would attract every bee in the yard before I could reach the safety of the cottage. I am no longer as swift as I was.”

“Neither of us is,” Watson agreed. These days, Holmes’ rheumatism caused him to limp almost as badly as Watson’s old wounds and arthritis. “You need a fresh change of clothes?”

“And a sponge to wipe away the worst from my hands and face.”

“I’ll fetch them at once.” He started to turn, then paused.

“What is it, Watson? You have the strangest expression on your face.”

“I was just struck by a thought,” Watson answered slowly. “Time was, you never would have called me. You would have tried to extricate yourself without involving anyone else, even me.”

Holmes shook his head. “That was years and years ago now,” he replied, his voice soft and fond. “I am far wiser now than I was then, and I know your value.”

“Did you ever think it might come to this, that we might come to this, back in 1881 when you asked me to meet you and go together to inspect a set of rooms to share?”

Holmes laughed. “Oh my dear Watson! Your stories have painted me as the world’s greatest detective, but I assure you, I never could have deduced anything like this. Or dreamed it. I never would have dared.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted April 1st, 2013


End file.
